The corridor stretched before me, a testament to imperial excess. Lavish wasn't the word; it was a calculated display of power rendered in marble and gilt. Massive golden chandeliers, each holding dozens of cold, enchanted crystals, hung from the vaulted ceiling like frozen constellations, casting a light that was bright yet somehow sterile. My boots, polished to a mirror sheen, clicked a precise, solitary rhythm on the veined marble floor, the sound echoing in the grand emptiness. Evelyn followed a respectful half-step behind, her own soft footfalls a ghost of mine.
Servants, clad in impeccable livery, materialized from side passages and alcoves, bowing low as we passed. Their murmurs were a practiced symphony of deference.
"Wow, young master Lucas is so handsome," a young maid whispered to another, her voice carrying in the acoustically perfect hall.
I let the praise wash over me without acknowledgment, my face a carefully maintained mask of indifferent composure. These compliments were part of the palace's ambient noise, as constant and meaningless as the hum of the chandeliers.
We reached the terminus of the corridor: a pair of towering doors forged from reinforced gold, their surfaces etched with scenes of imperial conquest. Before them stood two guards, their postures so rigid they seemed carved from the same stone as the walls. The aura of disciplined, tightly-leashed magical power radiated from them—a tangible pressure that marked them as more than mere ceremonial fixtures.
They bowed in perfect unison, the motion sharp and efficient. "Good morning, young master Lucas. Her Highness and the princesses are already within."
I gave a curt nod, the barest dip of my chin. Protocol satisfied.
"I'll see you later, young master," Evelyn murmured, dipping into a curtsy. Maids, no matter how trusted, were not permitted within the imperial dining sanctum.
"I'll see you later then," I replied, allowing a small, genuine smile to touch my lips for her alone before the mask settled back into place.
The guards moved as one, their gauntleted hands grasping the massive handles. With a deep, resonant groan that spoke of immense weight, the golden doors swung inward.
I took a silent, steadying breath, a private ritual before stepping into the lion's den.
The dining room was an exercise in overwhelming opulence. It was larger than the grand hall of most noble mansions. More golden chandeliers blazed overhead, their light reflecting off marble walls inlaid with mother-of-pearl and floors so polished they mirrored the ceiling. The centerpiece was a table that seemed to stretch into infinity, a river of dark, ancient wood burdened with an obscene cornucopia of food. Whole roasted beasts glistened with herbs, towers of pastries defied gravity, steaming platters of vegetables formed miniature gardens, and crystal decanters held liquids that shimmered with internal light.
Seated at this feast of kings were four people. Four women who represented the pinnacle of power, beauty, and complexity in the Empire of Yves.
At the head, on a chair that was less furniture and more a minimalistic throne of black leather and obsidian, sat the Empress. Alexandra Tan Zalanta. She was clad in a gown of profound crimson, the color of arterial blood and royal decree. A single, monstrous ruby hung at her throat, pulsing with a slow, captured fire. Her hair was a cascade of black waves, resting like a shadow upon her shoulders. Her beauty was not merely aesthetic; it was a force, a gravitational pull that made hatred feel like heresy. Even when I wished to despise her, the sheer perfection of her form invoked a strange, unwilling reverence. Her eyes, the color of banked coals, had been fixed on the door—on me—long before I entered. I knew her ability; she could not only see shapes but she saw the thermal signatures of living things. My entrance had been a bloom of warmth in her cold, infrared world.
To her left sat two girls my own age, a study in contrasting beauty.
The first had hair as black as the Empress's, but cut in a sharp, aggressive wolf-cut that framed a face of fierce, feline grace. Her eyes, the same inherited crimson, held a challenge. Londres Tan Zalanta, the Third Princess. She was dressed for a duel, not a meal: black trousers and a white blouse that strained heroically against a formidable bosom. Her beauty was tomboyish, athletic, and carried an air of perpetual readiness.
Beside her was a vision of gothic elegance. Andromeda Tan Zalanta, the Second Princess. Her hair was the color of rich cream and spun latte, a stark, beautiful frame for eyes of the same deep red, but where Londres's sparked with fire, Andromeda's were pools of frozen wine. She was swathed head-to-toe in flawless black—a dress that whispered of midnight, earrings like droplets of obsidian, lips painted a shade so dark it seemed to drink the light. Her face was an aloof, angelic mask, beautiful and utterly distant. She reminded me of Uriel, the Archangel of Fire from an old book—a judge, beautiful and terrifying in her impartiality.
On the Empress's other side, facing the younger princesses, sat the anomaly.
Sephira Tan Zalanta, the First Princess. If the others were masterpieces carefully displayed, Sephira was the stunning sketch left on the artist's floor. Her hair, a breathtaking waterfall of pale, moonlit white, was a glorious, disheveled mess, as if she'd rolled straight from her bed. Which, given her attire, she likely had. She wore simple black pajamas adorned with chibi cartoon dragons, an affront to every norm of royal decorum, especially in the presence of the Empress. Yet, she lounged with an air of sublime unconcern.
Her beauty was legendary, often spoken of in the same breath as Alexandra's. It was a different kind, softer yet more devastating. An oval face of near-perfect symmetry, a subtle beauty mark like a deliberate flaw placed by a divine artisan beneath her right eye. And her eyes, that familiar crimson, were heavy-lidded with sleep and profound, enchanting laziness. They were the first to greet me as I approached.
"Morning Lucas~, yawn," she drawled, the words punctuated by a genuine, unladylike yawn that she made no attempt to hide.
"Good morning, Sephira. How did you sleep?" I asked, taking the empty seat between her and the Empress, allowing a small, real smile to surface. Of all of them, Sephira was the easiest to be around.
"Not good," she sighed, propping her chin on a hand. "Woke up far too early for this dawn tribunal with you brats. Cruel and unusual punishment, I say."
A flicker of irritation crossed Londres's face, quickly suppressed as she viciously sawed at a piece of meat. Andromeda continued eating with serene, silent focus, a tiny smear of brown sauce on her cheek the only hint of human fallibility. It was, I admitted privately, somewhat endearing.
Sephira's irreverent, lazy honesty was what drew me to her. She had been the first to accept my commoner origins without a hint of concealed contempt, offering a casual kindness that felt genuine. The others had taken time, their acceptance a wary, negotiated peace. Well, except for the Crown Prince, a man who felt more like a true sibling than the blood-relative I'd been saddled with in this world. He defied the trope of the arrogant heir, a refreshing anomaly.
"Good morning, Andromeda and Londres," I offered, turning to the other princesses.
Andromeda acknowledged me with a regal, silent nod, now dabbing at her cheek with a napkin. Londres offered no reply, her focus locked on her plate. It was her standard operating procedure with me. Did it bother me?
Fuck no.
Finally, I turned to the source of the room's gravity. "And good morning, Empress." I inclined my head, the gesture of respect measured and precise.
She acknowledged me with a microscopic nod, her expression one of glacial, imperial indifference. The transformation was always jarring. Just last night, this same woman, ruler of an empire, had been a tangled, sweating, moaning creature beneath me in the shadowed secrecy of my chambers. The dichotomy was astounding.
Women. I will never truly understand them, I thought, not for the first time, as I began filling my plate.
The food was, as always, sublime. The roast meat melted on the tongue, a symphony of herbs and perfect cookery. The palace chef must have made a pact with a culinary deity, I mused, savoring the flavor.
A heavy, comfortable silence descended, broken only by the precise clink of silverware and the soft sounds of consumption.
"So," a voice laced with sleep and amusement cut through the quiet. "Are you guys ready for your awakening?"
My eyes shifted to Sephira.
"It's all cool," I said, shrugging. "I'm just curious. What kind of magical ability will I get? Maybe a rare affinity?"
"Tsk." The derisive sound came from across the table. Londres didn't look up from her plate. "Just because you wear royal silks now, don't imagine your commoner blood has been purified. I doubt you'll awaken anything worthwhile."
I met her gaze for a few, flat seconds, my face an unreadable slate. Then, I simply returned to my meal. "We'll see."
She clicked her tongue again, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Commo—"
A single glance from Alexandra—not a glare, but a look of such utter, frozen finality—silenced Londres mid-word. The younger princess bit her lip, the color draining slightly from her face, and returned her attention to her food with forced concentration.
Londres was the archetypal noble brat, her disdain for commoners woven into her very being. Her tolerance of me was a thin veneer over deep-seated contempt, and she seized every opportunity, public or private, to try and prick my dignity. Fortunately, my skin had grown thick in this life. Her barbs were irritants, mosquito bites in a world of greater dangers.
Alexandra's swift censure was predictable. The Empress's own origins were a poorly-kept secret of monumental importance. She had been born in the mud, and her ascent to the throne had not softened her toward those who looked down upon it. Woe betide any who mocked commoners in her presence.
Sephira watched the exchange with sleepy amusement, a cat observing sparring mice.
"Well, I wish you the best, Lucas," Sephira said, reaching over to ruffle my hair with a familiarity that would make a protocol officer faint. She then stood, stretching with an unselfconscious grace. "I hope you don't run away when you see the knife trying to stab your chest."
With that cryptic, cheerful warning, she padded barefoot out of the dining hall, her chibi-dragon pajamas the last thing to disappear through the golden doors.
I watched her go, my internal smile widening at the sight of her bare feet on the cold marble. She is gloriously, authentically carefree.
Now, you might be wondering about her parting words. The casual mention of a knife to the chest.
The reason is both simple and profoundly, terrifyingly complicated.
In this world, to awaken the magical potential slumbering within, a teenager must undergo a specific, brutal ritual. It is not a meditation or a trial of will in a spiritual realm.
It is a physical, visceral, and lethally precise act.
A ceremonial knife, blessed and enchanted, must be plunged directly into the candidate's heart.
Survive the strike, and the magic within is shocked into life, bursting forth in a unique configuration of abilities and affinities.
Die, and you are simply another body to be removed.
Crazy, right?
**********
I will be uploading every single day from now on.